Secondary Self.

Secondary Self.

My hair is a secondary part of me...

Attached to the brain, it grows

abundant, jubilant, regardless of racial

tensions, in long directions.

Other folk stare at it, glazed;

perplexed, at youth, and the way of this

and that, the breeze that drifts in waves

and curls. To ask if I come from Israel.

or India, or even if in some enchanted way,

some sunshine country that fathered me.

Mothered me, and let me roam, across continents

of green, and seas of hope. The Princess who

Never knew her home. Displays the lesson

in layered curls and ringlets – yet

wears no pearls, or rubies or bright yellow gold.

It says – who am I? - with each defiant motion.

Caught in time – the child is grown,

and yet the mane – is wild, full blown.

Like the Rose, twill fall apart

a crown of thorns, in a wintry blast.